


Glossophobia

by oneeyeluck



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: M/M, asshole bellamy, dog? i like dog, kinda funny, not too funny, rewritten, speech impediment murphy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 04:13:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9583133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneeyeluck/pseuds/oneeyeluck
Summary: the fear of public speaking, or speaking in general.-Murphy has a stutter.Bellamy doesn't have a stutter.





	

Murphy realizes he’s twenty minutes late when his eyes meet the digital clock, blinking red numbers at him, taunting him. He curses as he tugs on his too-big-for-him winter jacket, sleeves hanging over his pale hands. He hurries to his door, pulling it open quickly before swiftly turning and shutting the door behind him, already locked from the inside.

Hurrying to get out, he was his normal self, meaning that he wasn’t paying attention.

At all.

He felt something solid against his leg, which sent him spiraling towards the ground as he let out a yelp. His shoulder thumps against the ground, making him wince before he took in his surroundings.

"What the fuck, man? You kicked my dog!" He looks up at the person standing above him. Beautiful tan skin, handsome face, and the softest-looking black curls.

Wow. Gay much?

Then it clicks, he just rammed this God’s dog.

"I-I-I'm sorry, I w-w-was was in a-a-a rush, a-and-and I wasn't p-p-paying at-at-attention. I-Is he o-o-okay?" His concern was evident in his voice as he tried to peek around the amazingly-gorgeous older boy, seeing the dog stood behind him. The dog appears fine, standing on all fours.

He didn’t even know dogs were allowed in his apartment complex.

Curls, Murphy names him, gives him an odd look, pity shone bright in his dark eyes. "Yeah.. yeah, she's fine. Are you?"

He wasn't sure if he was referencing to his disability, or the small fall. He gave a quick nod, a whispered, stuttered apology before turning around and quickly walking off. He didn't want pity. So what if he could barely speak? That doesn't mean shit.

 

 

It was a few days later the next time he saw the beautiful older boy, once again returning with his dog while Murphy was rushing. They made eye contact, a quick nod, and then he dashed. Stumbling away to get to work on time, one more time and he was going to get fired.

He didn't know what the thing was about the new boy, but Curls definitely needed a new name. Murphy would try talking to him, but come on.

Although he wasn't born with the stutter, he was used to it as if he had it his entire life. He hated it at times though.

He was quiet, afraid to embarrass himself. He had other people order food for him, never went to drive-thrus, and refused to talk over the phone with a stranger. People think it's bad reception, but it isn't. It's just him trying to talk.

"You should talk slower. "

That was a comment he got too much. No, you can't talk slower. That doesn't do anything. He still has a stutter, but it's even worse.

He struggles with words, especially banana. Stupid word. Stupid fruit. Stupid.

He pushes the door open to the outside world, a shiver running through his body as he makes his way down the sidewalk to the closest bus stop, which wasn't close at all. Seriously. It annoyed him almost as much as bananas did.

 

He collapses on his couch, dramatically sighing as he scans the room.

Maybe he should clean… no, that’s lame. John Murphy doesn’t clean.

John Murphy isn’t happy either.

He's always been alone. With a dead father, dead mother, and shitty foster parents, it was hard to see the good in people.

When he got his concussion, he felt fine so he didn’t go to the hospital. Why be a burden? The next day his voice was slow, and he could hardly speak.

He felt like a freak.

After that, he would go days without talking, refusing to embarrass himself.

He became a quiet, shy person. Sort of. He still had a temper, but it was harder for him to stay mad, since yelling at someone while stuttering is kind of sad. The more emotional he got, the harder it was for him to talk.

His stomach let out a loud rumble, which he returns with a loud, annoyed groan, swinging his feet onto the floor and stretching while he stands.

Stumbling to his kitchen, he quickly checks the fridge, then the cabinets, then his hiding spot for food. He has no food, besides some crackers.

It was getting dark outside, but John Murphy wasn’t a little bitch.

Pulling on a pair of pants, matched with a simple sweater that was two sizes too big for him, he grabs his keys and made his way into the halls.

He pulls his door shut firmly, before making his descent down his stairs. His first week living here he took the elevator, but then it broke with him in it and he never went near it again.

Checking his phone, he made his way to the door. Pushing it open and barely taking a step outside, he looked up to see that it was pitch black and snowing.

Fuck that.

 

Back on his floor, he counts the doors, trying to remember which door as which. There was a nice old dude who gave Murphy bread, but he moved out. Or died. Who knew.

There’s only six doors. The two furthest down are empty to his knowledge, the one closest to him has a crabby bitch, the one across from him a very noisy prostitute, then a few others he isn’t fond of.

He made his way slowly down the corridor, two weren’t home, prostitute was… busy. Crabby whore said no.

He stood in the hall, confused and hungry when something..someone touched his shoulder and he spun around, only to realize he's standing practically nose to nose with basically-the-hottest-guy-alive.

Murphy stays silent, staring at him.

“You’re in front of my door.”

What a beautiful douche bag.

Choking on the lump in his throat, he gave a quick nod before taking a step away, the metal door knob pressing against his lower back. He admired the way his shirt was tight against his arms. Maybe he was bisexual.

Murphy wonders if he works on his _bi_ ceps.

Murphy was about to make his way back to his hole in the wall apartment, determined that he was just going to spend the rest of his evening starving, when a rough hand gripped his shoulder again. He turns again to face the big brown eyes and freckled, god-like smiling face of Curls. He couldn’t summon up anything to say or even a semblance of a sound. He was just staring at the beautiful douchebag’s perfect fucking face with his mouth slightly agape.

“Did you need something?” The God questions, almost bordering threatening.

A chill ran through down spine, as if he had stepped into the freezing weather outside.

“I-I have t-to go to the st-store b-but I-c-can’t dri-drive.”

John Murphy would refuse to the end of days that he is scared of the dark.

“Oh.” Came the awkward response.

They both stood there, Greek Gods hand gripping almost painfully on his forearm. Murphy tries to tug his arm back from the Man of Muscle, to no avail. “I-I gotta g-go… “ He had to get back to his room as fast as humanly possible. Maybe he would go to bed thinking of rough skin against his, hot sweat and rutting friction. A voice snapped him out of his reverie.

“Oh, right, sorry. Would you like a ride?” Adonis questions, loosening his grip.

He blinked. Once, twice, three times, before nodding.

“I’m Bellamy.” Bellamy says.

“Murphy.” He shook his arm up and down, as if shaking his hand. Except his hand was on his forearm. It was awkward.

“Right, uh. I’ll drive you on one condition.” Taller-by-an-inch says.

More like Thicker-by-an-inch.

He gives him a frustrated look, as if to say Go on.

“You let me take you out on a date.”

**Author's Note:**

> lexterminate helped with some of this ! lots of thanks to her


End file.
